


In The Closet With Theodore Nott: From the Live Journal Vaults

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dior - Freeform, M/M, live journal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Theodore have history, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Closet With Theodore Nott

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ColorfulStabwound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Dior Trilogy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791401) by [ColorfulStabwound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound). 



> This is a collection of odds and ends that had been written for ColorfulStabwound and posted on Live Journal back in the day. Most of them have a Draco component written by ColorfulStabwound. Unfortunately, most of Draco's works are lost now, but in the cases where they've been found, I have linked them.
> 
> For Draco, who has an entire universe inside his soul.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theodore prepares for a trip to New York Fashion Week with Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Live Journal in March of 2011 in response to ColorfulStabwound's The Dior Trilogy.

Theodore stood bewildered inside his walk-in closet for a good five minutes before finally extracting a shirt from its padded hanger.  He inwardly cursed himself for allowing Draco to arrange his clothes.  Until recently, his wardrobe sat folded in old trunks in his bedroom, and though it appeared disorganized, Theodore always knew exactly where everything was.  Draco felt that it was a travesty to keep clothing stuffed in a box, particularly designer menswear, of which Theodore owned a fair amount – surprising, considering he didn’t much care about labels.  Theodore’s closet was now organized into aesthetic categories, which he still couldn’t quite figure out. Apparently, this carefully devised scheme of Draco’s was supposed to facilitate selecting the proper outfit based on its intended purpose: Meetings with his publisher, casual drinks with friends, elegant dinners, stepping out for a quick nosh, public book signings, etc.

 

Theodore mused to himself, _“Where would I find the right outfit for seducing a man with a very refined sense of style?”_

It was Fashion Week in New York City. Draco would be making his annual pilgrimage to design Mecca and taking Theodore along.  He booked a suite for them at The Plaza.  Theodore, being the self-doubting fool that he is, wasn’t sure how he should interpret this invitation.  Was Theodore along for the ride for shits and giggles? Or was this meant to be a holiday spent _together_.

 

 

They’d been playing this game for years now – innuendo-laden flirtation flavored heavily with sarcasm that would escalate to either Theodore retreating to a corner to pout dejectedly, a physical altercation and more pouting, or that rarest of gems – a kiss.  Theodore never knew where he stood with Draco. Was he a distraction? A fleeting amusement? Or did Draco actually _care_ about Theodore.  If he hadn’t been so foolishly in love with Draco, Theodore wouldn’t stand for being strung along like this.

 

 

In exchange for enduring runway shows at Draco’s side for days on end, they would spend their first night out doing something Theodore chose.  An old friend would be DJ-ing an after-hours party at The Museum of Natural History on Thursday. Theodore thought this event would be non-threatening enough for Draco.  Well-dressed people sipping cocktails in the dim lights of a planetarium and the prospect of dancing seemed like a fair balance between Draco’s and Theodore’s interests.  Though Theodore highly doubted he could convince Draco to dance.  Not without an obscene amount of liquor, at least.

 

Theodore had already thrown several thoughtfully selected outfits into his suitcase but was in the process of choosing the last outfit.  This was the only ensemble that mattered.  This was what Theodore would be wearing to the Museum party.  Hopefully, it would also be the outfit Draco would be tearing off of him after the party.  Theodore had reached for a white shirt.  Unlike his other white dress shirts, this one was tailored to fit him perfectly, if a bit snugly for effect.  It was the fancy sort of shirt that lacked buttons on the sleeves, the sort that required cufflinks. 

 

After carefully placing the shirt in the suitcase, he opened one of the many little cedar drawers in the closet filled with rarely used accessories.  In the drawer Draco had designated for cufflinks, Theodore rifled around in search of a particular box.  Perplexed upon not finding it, he began opening drawer after tiny drawer, frantically looking for the box. Finally, he found it, misfiled with watches that had never left their cases.  It was a black satin-covered clamshell box with the word “Dior” pressed into the top in shiny white letters.  Theodore opened it to inspect its contents.  Wedged in the furrow of a satin pad, were two small ebony and silver squares, each dotted with a tiny diamond.  They sparkled beneath the halogen lamps of the closet, deflecting the light in all directions like miniscule mirror balls.  They were much too flashy for Theodore’s tastes, but this situation thoroughly warranted them.

 

Theodore carefully closed the box with a smile and chuckled to himself, _“If this won’t make you mine, nothing else will.”_


	2. Awake in Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theodore is awake, but surely, he must still be dreaming if he's in bed with Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on Live Journal on June 5th, 2011 in response to ColorfulStabwound's The Dior Trilogy.

I am almost sure I had been dreaming. I am laying on the bed, face down on the sweat-dampened pillow, fingers in a white-knuckled grasp upon the bed sheets. I’m panting, trying to steady my breaths as I attempt to orient myself in space and time in the darkness. It hurts my head, trying to think so hard, and I wonder if I’m still drunk.

 

My eyes gaze out blankly across the dim room. Moments flash like lightning from one emotional explosion to the next sensual outburst in a disjointed procession leading from the party at the museum to the hotel room at The Plaza.

 

 

There was a fight – a struggle for control. I remember the taste of blood trickling down my throat and the sting in my sinuses. I remember burning with a demonic anger that bordered desire, and I recall a carnal need for violence. I wanted to make you hurt in one instance with the same intensity that you’d been making me ache for years. And at the same time, I wanted you. I could not suppress these feelings any longer, nor could I run from them. You forced me to face the demon, to embrace it, to let it overtake me.

 

My hands seemed to move with a confidence and purpose that I had no idea they possessed. That purpose was to break you down; to tear away every pretense and shatter every façade with each item of clothing I ripped from your body. And, yes, it felt so good just to dishonor what you held so dear.

 

You yielded to me. The triumph of it all felt almost as delightful as your pliant flesh beneath me.  I never imagined, in all my nights of fantasizing about that very moment, that I would be the aggressor and that you would be taking it with gnashed teeth and eyes ablaze with lust.

 

I released years of pent-up longing in several furious bursts that wrenched my heart so violently I passed out.

 

But it couldn’t have been real. I must have dreamt it. In fact, I’m almost certain I am still drunk. Draco Malfoy would never…

 

 

I feel the moist heat of your breath upon the back of my neck, steadily burning and fading rhythmically. And then I feel the warmth of your body overtaking mine. Your fingers curl around my wrists, pinning my hands on either side of my head.

 

Your mouth grazes the side of my neck before teeth press into the flesh and you hiss, “My turn.”


	3. A Different Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theodore is a masochist. He can handle destruction. But when Draco gives him tenderness instead of pain, that's when it really hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Live Journal in November of 2011

A hand slowly caresses down my back, making me shiver slightly. An elegantly lithe finger traces the coiling lines of a fading tattoo, redrawing the intricate designs of angel’s wings, as if stealing their meaning and replacing their significance with his own. His fingertips graze the pale pink ridges of old scars, forcing me to revisit the emotions he inflicted along with those wounds. His palms glide over the sharp angles of bones, making me feel self-conscious about how thin I’ve become. His touch feels heavenly and intimate, but I can’t help but sense a subtle, underlying intention behind it. 

It is as if he’s drawing a map on my back, cataloging the marks and imperfections of my body, surveying previously unexplored flesh. He finds an expanse of unblemished skin on the small of my back, just to the left of my spine, and draws invisible circles as if to claim it as his new territory. 

I wonder how he’ll mark me; how he’ll stake his claim. Will he scratch pink lines across my thin skin? Will he bruise me with his teeth? Will he make me bleed?

My posture conveys submission. I’m laying on my front, resting my head in my arms, in no position to resist or retaliate. In fact, I welcome the assault. I’m desperate to feel again, so desperate that I’ll take physical pain over the dull, persistent heartache I’d been feeling for months. I’ll take any strong emotion he’s willing to give me, be it hate, anger, or humiliation. Anything is better than the feeling of utter emptiness.

I feel the heat of his body radiating upon my bare skin as he comes closer. I feel the warmth of his breath upon the unmarked flesh he’s just claimed. All my muscles tense in anticipation. Surely, he sees this. I steel myself, ready for pain, silently begging for it.

His lips ghost over my skin, rendering it hyper-sensitive, raising goose-bumps. Instead of teeth sinking into my flesh, instead of possession and lust, I just barely feel his mouth pressing gently against me in a feather-light kiss. And then another. And yet another. He is kissing me in an entirely different way. Softly. Tenderly. Lovingly.

I release the breath I’d been holding as a shuddering exhale, and whimper, “Draco…” I’m surprised to find tears stinging my eyes. “Don’t.” It’s a whispered plea, and I’m not sure if I really mean it. Fuck, he knows I don’t mean it, as evident by his complete disregard for my half-arse request.

It feels like he’s reaching into my chest, curling his fingers around my heart, and is threatening to rip it out. I could easily let him. He could bruise me, cut me, make me bleed. He could break my body. He could break my heart all over again. He could fool me into believing he really cares. He could make me believe that he needs me and wants me in ways I’ve always needed and wanted him. I want to believe his words and succumb to his kiss. Though I know it can’t possibly be genuine. And when he leaves me, breathless, wanting, and wrenched wide open, I’ll be worse off than the heart-broken shell that came here.

Still, I want it so badly it hurts – to feel loved, for once. 

Tonight, I resign to giving him what he wants. I’m naked and vulnerable. The masochist in me begs to be used and abused. I surmise, from nothing more than his actions, that he needs me to help him forget that he too was once naked and vulnerable for another. Perhaps his heart was even broken, though I can hardly imagine such a thing. 

Perhaps I’m just a rebound. Haven’t I always been that safe go-to person he can always count on to take all his shit? Whatever he needs right now, I’ll give it to him, because I always have. No matter how much I resist him and pretend that I don’t love him, I will always give him exactly what he wants after a good fight. 

But tonight, we’re not fighting. And I’m giving him everything. Because I can’t fucking help myself. I am his.


End file.
